


Va'ekra

by Arlome



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Existential Crisis, F/M, Judaism, Post Season 3, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 12:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: “If I told you that the Devil is real and lives here in L.A., what would you do?” she finally asks, her voice small and frightened.Or, what happened if after seeing the Devil's face, Chloe visited a local synagogue, instead of the Vatican.





	Va'ekra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObliObla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/gifts).

> Obli, darling, happy birthday! :)
> 
> My undying thanks to [TheWillowBends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends) for reading this thing that I wrote in the middle of the night and thus preventing me from accidentally making Rabbi Schulman commit a serious religious offence:P
> 
> Va'ekra is (biblical) Hebrew for "and I shall cry out".

He finds the woman sitting in the front row, staring at the Torah ark with unseeing eyes. Her back is hunched, and she holds herself in a way that makes him worry that she might be injured; a fleeting doubt of whether he should be calling for help instead of just speculating enters his mind. Heaving a tired sigh, he takes a few steps forward, leaning on the rows of benches for support as he makes his way slowly to the front. The woman makes no indication that she’s aware of his presence.

“My dear lady,” he says gently when he’s close enough to talk to her without raising his voice, “Is everything all right? I’m afraid you are sitting in the men’s section; the women’s section is over there, behind the curtain.”

The woman starts and turns to him, her hair wild and eyes wet and wide. “Oh, I- I’m sorry,” she stammers, looking about herself, clearly at a loss, “I – I didn’t know….I’ll go – “

His chest feels tight at the look on her face. Here’s a soul in pain, and he has a chance of helping; surely Hashem wouldn’t mind a bit of transgression in the name of kindness?

“No need,” he says gently and takes a seat next to her on the bench. “Nobody’s here anyway. It’s the lazy hours between _Min__cha_ and _Ma’ariv; _a peaceful time. I’m Rabbi Schulman; what’s your name, miss -?”

“Detective Chloe Decker.” The woman sighs dejectedly, her large blue eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “I’m sorry I just barged in, but I needed…I don’t even know what I needed. I – I’m not even _Jewish_…”

The Rabbi leans back against the plush lining of the wooden bench and smooths a papery hand over his white beard. He’s got a feeling he’s in for a long sitting.

“How about you tell me what’s troubling you, Detective, and I will do my very best to help.”

The woman looks at him and smiles softly, nodding her acquiescence to his suggestion.

“You’re very kind,” she mumbles, “thank you.”

He fumbles in his trouser pocket and produces a checkered handkerchief - the kind only old geezers such as himself still carry around. She accepts the square cloth gratefully and dabs at her nose, muttering another ‘_thank you_’ into the creased material.

“They’ll take away my ordination if I’m not kind,” he says, winking. Detective Decker laughs wetly and wipes the tears from her eyes.

She looks at him sadly, swallowing a few times. It is clear to the old man that she’s finding it rather difficult to voice the turmoil in her chest. He does not speak, does not press; instead, he folds his arms over his chest, his clear gaze sliding over to the Torah ark. The _Parochet_ covering it is lovely, he thinks affectionately: ruby red cloth, the edges and sacred words embroidered with a thick golden thread. It was made by Mrs Altman; he really should tell her again how masterfully done it is. Perhaps over the Shabbat evening service?

On his right, the detective takes a deep breath and clutches at the edges of the bench, leaning slightly forward.

“If I told you that the Devil is real and lives here in L.A., what would you do?” she finally asks, her voice small and frightened.

The old man takes a deep breath and squints into space.

“I’d say that the Devil is not as black as we make him out to be,” he answers truthfully, turning to look at the woman with interest, “But mind you, you came to a Jew, my dear Detective; for us the Devil is more of an abstract notion.”

The woman scoffs and laughs a little deliriously.

“Well, the joke’s on you and your entire people, Rabbi,” she sing-songs, “because the Devil is real and he’s here and I saw his face.”

“This Devil,” the Rabbi interjects, and the Detective settles down, “It’s not just an idea for you. You’re talking about a real man.”

She nods and worries the handkerchief he just gave her between her trembling fingers.

“Yes.” She whispers, and then, a little louder, “His name is Lucifer Morningstar; he’s a club owner, and a police consultant, and…and my partner.”

The Rabbi waits her out, sitting quietly by her side. He can tell that whatever she believes to be true is eating away at her heart and her guts, chewing on the nerves and gnawing on her feelings. Again, he does not speak, does not press – just sits by her side, awaiting her words.

“You see, Rabbi,” she continues and dabs at her eyes again, “I am – _was_ – an atheist, so finding out that Heaven and Hell are real - I’m not going to lie – it was quite a punch in the gut for me. So, as you can see, I’m having an existential crisis or ten at the moment!”

The Rabbi smiles kindly at her, prompting her on with his comforting silence.

“And - I didn’t know what to do. “She continues, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes, “He – Lucifer – hates the church, so I figured, I’d go to a Rabbi, because, I don’t know…. I – I just can’t see him as _evil, _even though the Bible, or whatever, says he is… But, I mean, I should probably consider the price to my soul, right? Surely consorting with the Devil is _bad_? Am I going to Hell now? For not believing in God and for kiss-“ she stops herself mid-speech and takes a deep, shaky breath, “I’m not making much sense, am I?”

“No, I understand,” the old man says kindly, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, “Do you wish to hear a little about how Judaism perceives the Devil? Will that help?”

She nods, relieved, and blows her nose.

“Well, first you should understand, Detective, that free will is a real thing.” He begins, rubbing his aching fingers. His blasted arthritis is acting up again. “Whatever man does, whatever path he chooses, it is his choice. We alone are responsible for our actions, not some celestial entity that supposedly reigns over pits of gaping fire. Now, taking this to heart, if your Devil is real, how can he be evil, if he has no hand in mortal sins?”

The detective gasps and clenches the handkerchief in her hand so forcefully that her fingers turn white. 

“He does always say that he’s not evil, that he just _punishes_ it,” she whispers, her eyes wide and staring into space.

The Rabbi nods, though he doubts the detective can see the gesture.

“Very true, and if he punishes evil, then he’s only doing God’s work, right?”

Detective Decker turns to the old man, looking wilder than ever.

“H-he left Hell!” She almost yelps, her voice bordering on shrill, “He told me once that he was tired of playing a role in his Father’s game. His Father is _God_.”

“There you have it, then,” the Rabbi nods again, smiling encouragingly, “and didn’t you say that he was your partner? So, he continues with punishing evil on earth. Sounds like a decent man to me.”

The detective’s face twists and her lips tremble.

“He can be very kind when he wants to,” she whispers, and brings the handkerchief to her lips, “a-and he played monopoly with me and my daughter a few times. She _adores_ him.”

“In my experience, Detective,” the Rabbi quips, leaning back against the soft bench lining, “horned, pitchfork-wielding devils aren’t usually into board games.”

She smiles almost brilliantly at him and her eyes soften ever so slightly.

“No horns,” she sighs, and her voice catches a little in her throat, “No pitchforks, either.”

“Sounds like a handsome devil,” Rabbi Schulman chuckles, and the detective nods.

“Yes,” she confirms, and the colour seeps back into her pale cheeks, “Very.”

After a few moments of silence, she turns to him, her gaze curious.

“How are you not afraid?” The detective asks, her voice soft and shaky, “I just told you that the Devil is real, that Heaven and Hell are _real, _and yet you sit here, relaxed and smiling. How do you do that?”

The old man laughs and places his palms on his knees.

“My dear girl”, he answers gently, his voice soft and raspy, and familiar, “I always knew that Heaven was real. It’s called having faith. And as for Hell, well – let me tell you this, I’ve been through Hell, Detective, and nothing in this world or the next can scare me now.”

At her puzzled look, he lifts his left arm and rolls his sleeve up to his elbow. A faint greying six-digit number is imprinted into the inside of his forearm, stamped into his flesh like a livestock brand. On his right, the detective gasps loudly and covers her mouth. 

“I-I’m sorry,” she mumbles into her folded palms, “I’m so, so –“

“What are you sorry for?” The Rabbi asks her, shaking his sleeve down and fastening the cufflink, “You didn’t start that war. But you know what, Detective? You know what this number represents. Now, you tell me; do you think your friend is responsible for the Holocaust? For slavery? Maybe’s he’s to blame for the famine in Africa, too?”

She shakes her head and mutters a soft _no_.

“No,” the Rabbi agrees, nodding sadly, “These are all actions of living men with poor morals. We choose to be bad, to be _evil_; nobody is forcing our hands, Detective. And I, for one, am glad that your Devil walks freely among us. I’ll sleep better at night, now, knowing that the ever-vigilant Satan is keeping the streets clean.”

He means the last part as a joke, and she understands it as such, for she laughs and dabs at the eyes again, looking more animated.

“Thank you,” she whispers, the gratitude in her voice strong and vibrant, “I knew it was a good idea to skip the church.”

The Rabbi waves his hand as if to dismiss the mere notion.

“Eh, morose fellas; you’d find more cheer in a graveyard!”

She laughs again, this time a little more confidently, and he smiles at the clear sound, his chest feeling lighter.

The first evening worshipers start trickling in, clearly in high spirits and conversing loudly. Detective Decker jumps from her seat as if bitten, and nods at the Rabbi.

“Thank you, Rabbi Schulman, really.” She gushes, her eyes shining, her nose red. The old man smiles again and nods, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m glad I could help, Detective, I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am.” She confirms, her voice finally steady and confident, “Much better.”

“Good,” he sighs, and turns to look at the curious crowd at the back, “And now, it is time for _Ma’ariv, _and I must talk to God.”

The Detective smiles a little slyly and stuffs her hands in her back pockets.

“Good luck,” she laughs softly, “The Devil tells me He’s not one for answers.”

The Rabbi rises to his feet with some difficulty and the detective takes a few steps back to give him space.

“Detective Decker,” the old man says, his eyes wide and mouth stretched in a smile, “I’d be more worried if He _did_ answer.”

She laughs heartily now, startling a few men closer to their aisle; then she nods and walks towards the exit, her back straight and stride sure.

He wonders if he’ll ever see his handkerchief again.

***

A few days later, she returns to find him sitting in the front row, reading _Mishnayot. _A tall, striking, well-dressed man is trailing behind her, looking both bored and excited at once.

“Hello, Rabbi Schulman,” she greets him amicably, and he notices that she’s fresh-faced and altogether better than when he first found her in his house of worship, “I came to return your handkerchief.”

“Thank you, Detective!” he cries jovially, and opens his palm to receive the freshly laundered cloth, before casting a knowing glance at her companion, “And this is Satan, I presume?”

The man’s eyes light up and a sly smile spreads across his exceptionally handsome face. What was it the Christian writings said about the Devil? That he was once the most beautiful of all of God’s angels? Well, the being darkening the doorstep of the synagogue certainly seems to fit the bill.

“Rabbi!” He cries, and the old man is startled to hear the clear, articulated British accent coming out of his grinning mouth, “You’ve heard about me! _Splendid_.”

“Lucifer!” the detective hisses, blushing in embarrassment, “_Behave_!”

The tall, dark-haired man smiles sharply and sticks his tongue in his cheek.

“Right you are, Detective,” he sighs and winks at the old man. Detective Decker rolls her eyes.

“I’m sorry about him, Rabbi,” she frowns apologetically, but he can see that her heart’s not really in the frustrated chastisement. Her eyes are too bright, for starters. “He insisted on coming…”

“All fine, my dear,” the Rabbi reassures her and steals a glimpse at the tall man. “It is not every day that one gets to meet a real angel, after all.”

Lucifer scoffs and shakes his head.

“I’m hardly one, Rabbi,” he drawls, his eyes ablaze with mischief, “Fell off the perch, I’m afraid. Had a nasty tumble.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, was anything broken?”

The Devil’s startled laughter is loud in the otherwise peaceful building. Detective Decker tries to hide her own smile behind the back of her hand.

“I _like_ you, Rabbi,” he says once all the laughter is out of his system, “Too bad you’re wasted on my Dad.”

The Rabbi closes his large book and moves to stand.

“Speaking of which,” he says, smiling brightly at the pair before him, “I’m just about to talk to Him, should I tell him you said ‘hi’?”

The man laughs again, and the sound is deep and real and coming straight from his belly; the Rabbi looks at the Detective and notices the high colour in her cheeks, no doubt caused by something other than mortification this time.

“Don’t bother, my good man,” Lucifer says, grinning happily, “the old bastard is probably too busy reading Kant and drinking a mojito in his garden to notice.”

“_Lucifer_!” the detective hisses again and slaps her palm over her face in frustration.

“What?” Her partner cries in indignation, looking righteously disgruntled, “He _is_! Ask Amenadiel, he’ll tell you – “

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Rabbi,” the detective interjects, smiling sweetly at the old man, “We’ll be leaving now. Thank you, again; you – you really helped me see things clearly.”

The Rabbi smiles and nods at the pair.

“My pleasure, Detective,” he answers cordially, “You’re welcome here for a theological discussion any time. You too, Satan.”

The man turns to him, smiling wickedly, his teeth gleaming in the artificial light.

“I might just take you up on that, Rabbi,” he cackles gleefully, “You lot are always good for a stimulating argument.”

“That we are,” the Rabbi agrees and watches in amusement as the detective latches onto Satan’s arm a little forcefully. Then, with a swift parting smile directed at the old man, she pulls and practically drags her partner away.

After the pair leaves, the Rabbi sits down on the bench and reopens his large tome of _Mishnayot_, chuckling softly to himself. After a moment, he starts praying silently in his heart.

_Hashem_, met_ your son today. Nice boy, if a bit of a smart-ass.”_  


**Author's Note:**

> Mincha - afternoon prayer.  
Ma'ariv - evening prayer.  
Parochet - the cloth that covers the Torah ark, where the Torah scrolls are kept.  
Hashem - God.


End file.
